


The Poet's Moon

by Numinous_Scribe



Series: RomBela Oneshots [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Romance, Tumblr Prompt, or poetry?, probably not, rombela, will i ever write their romance without even a hint of angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 10:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17702234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Numinous_Scribe/pseuds/Numinous_Scribe
Summary: "You are my love story, and I write you into everything I do, everything I see, everything I touch and everything I dream, you are the words that fill my page." - A.R. AsherIn which Vladimir has fallen for the Moon.





	The Poet's Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from tumblr: "Why do you only kiss me when I'm sleeping?"
> 
> Also, I highly recommend listening to Clair de Lune while reading this.

_ At 1 A.M. _

_ Pentru dragostea mea _

_                                           Sing softly, my darling dear, _

_                                                                         sing softly to me _

_                                                                                    while we rest in suspended _

_                                                                                                                           Eternity. _

_Your breath,_                      _warm on my skin_

_                                                                                                                 The gentle trails you trace _

_                                                                                                                                                      leaves a fire in my heart. _

_                                                                                                               The sweetness on your lips, _

_                                                                                        your hands on my hips, _

_                                               as we dance the night away. _

_                                                                                                Oh sing softly to me _

_                                                                              My darling _ _                                   dear _

_                                                                                      Gliding over a glass made world _

_                                                                                                                                    Just you and me, _

_                                                                                                                          together, _

_                                                                                              in perfect serenity. _

* * *

 

Vladimir set his pen down beside his finished work, quietly humming to himself. Tender rays of silver poured through the open window of which his desk was situated beneath. He liked to imagine that the bright tendrils were curiously probing the freshly inked page. The idea made him smile.

He hoped she would like this poem as much as she had the others.

The poet stood from his seat, throwing his arms behind his head as he stretched. At first, his muscles protested the action. But quickly they began to melt into acceptance, and he realized just how cramped he had been, sitting at that desk all day and a fair portion of the night. A large yawn escaped him.

Glancing out the window, Vladimir pressed his fingers to his lips before offering them to the moon.

“Goodnight, my love,” he whispered. The moon almost seemed to shimmer just a little brighter, as if it were wishing him a good night as well.

Drifting away, he climbed into bed, allowing his drowsiness to overcome him and send him off into the night.

* * *

 

The first thing Vladimir came to be aware of was the sound of a piano. The soft timbre floated whimsically through the air, alighting upon his ears like a delicate kiss. He breathed in deeply, sinking further into the warmth of his bed. As the song progressed, he found that he recognized the sweet melody;  _ Clair de Lune,  _ by Claude Debussy.

“How long do you plan to lay there?” A reticent voice broke through the peace brought by the music.

He cracked an eye, a crimson iris peering out at the world around him. Everything was much the same as he’d left it. The fire in the fireplace burned low, no more than just a pile of glowing embers. His bureau was immaculate, the mirror upon it shining brightly with the moon’s rays. And his writing desk, covered in papers― empty, filled, scrapped ― and pens and their inkwells. 

The only difference was the woman sitting in his chair.

She was a magnificent being, though magnificent barely scratched the surface when it came to describing her, in his humble opinion. Her pale skin, unblemished, untouched by the whims of time and mortal folly, radiated a pure energy. It complimented her platinum hair, lustrous strands light as air, falling past her waist. Her thin robes draped across her shoulders, white as fresh snow. The sight of her always took his breath away.

“Well?” Natalia shifted in the chair. Papers fluttered in her hands.

“I was just admiring the view,” he murmured.

“Even though it is one you see every night?”

“I never tire of it. I never tire of you, dragă.”

The woman scoffed, but he knew his words pleased her. She set the papers back on his desk, rising from the chair to glide across the room. She stopped at the edge of the bed and stroked his face with the tips of her fingers. Vladimir grabbed her hand and pressed it closer; she relaxed, cupping his cheek.

“Come, while the night is still here.” Her hand vanished from his grasp, and she moved away to stand by the window once more.

Vladimir rose at her insistence. The piano grew a little louder as he drew near the woman. Natalia reached for his hands, wrapping them around her waist. Her own hands slipped over his shoulders, and the two began to sway in time to the music.

Around them, the world shimmered, as if it were made of glass. And even if it were, neither minded. For it was just the two of them, suspended in eternity, dancing in serenity.

The poet leaned close to his lover, pressing his forehead against hers. Tender and warm, their lips met, and he tasted a sweetness so cool and delicate that nothing in the world could have possibly compared to it. When their mouths parted, he sighed.

“Why do you only kiss me when I am asleep?” 

It was a question he asked often, and it had an answer he already knew by heart. But it didn’t stop him from lamenting about it.

“For the same reason you have not joined me in the night sky,” Natalia retorted. Her voice softened, bringing her hands to his face. “Until it is time, this is the way things must be. You know that as well as I do.”

He sighed again. “Indeed, I do.”

The eyes of the night searched his face longingly. A sharp pain pierced his heart. Looking at his goddess, at Natalia― It was as much torture as it was a balm to his blight. She was beauty incarnate and he was the one who would transcribe that beauty. She was his, and he was hers. And yet, not quite so.

“I love you Vladimir. And we will be together one day. One night. For all of eternity.” She began to pull away from him. “But for now, I ask that you keep writing for me, that we may continue to meet. Until that special day which we never part.”

He swallowed thickly and nodded. “I shall never cease to acknowledge my fondness for you, because you are, and always will be, my Queen. My heart is yours.”

“And my heart is  _ yours _ .”

The woman smiled, her form glowing brighter with each rising note. The papers upon the desk rustled and slid into the air, his poems and oaths of dedication dancing to the symphony. He cried as his love disappeared from his sight. But he knew she wasn’t gone, not really. 

And one day he knew, there would be no more need for farewells.

When Vladimir awoke in his bed, he could have sworn the notes of  _ Clair de Lune _ still faintly played into the fading night.


End file.
